


Let Your Lap Be My Shelter

by the_ragnarok



Series: Happy Endings [13]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-01
Updated: 2011-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:38:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eames is worn down, and Arthur engineers an excuse for a nap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Your Lap Be My Shelter

Arthur knows he has a slight tendency to be paranoid. This is something that served him well in the past, so he's not particularly worried about it, but he recognizes that he can sometimes take it too far.

For example, when he makes Eames a cup of tea and finds himself casting furtive looks to see if anyone noticed, if anyone looks surprised that Arthur is _nice_ to Eames, it's probably time for Arthur to take a chill pill.

It's telling that Eames isn't saying anything, actually. Usually Eames would make fun of Arthur, because he's a jerk like that, and also he resents that Arthur never lets him do that kind of thing. Which is a little grating, because it's not that Arthur doesn't appreciate getting the occasional backrub or cup of coffee.

But there's a reason they're keeping quiet about this relationship, and it's not like it makes Arthur happy that they do. Necessity is what it is. Normally, they snark at each other and try to keep the touchy-feely gestures to a minimum when in company.

Arthur allows himself an exception today because, frankly, Eames looks like shit. This job is hell on both their nerves, but Arthur thrives under pressure and Eames – if current appearances are to be believed – wilts.

It's also possible that Arthur just has the better end of this deal. His job is exhausting and mind-numbing, but there's at least some satisfaction to him in pulling data out of seemingly meaningless numbers.

Eames, for this job, has to play four different people: The mark's wife, his mistress, and his two daughters. All of them are vapid, cosmetically-enhanced, and physically similar to a distressing degree. Worse, Eames has to play to the mark's perception of them, which is belittling and hateful, so Eames can't find the satisfaction he usually does in learning a person's small quirks, the qualities that can make them lovable.

Anyone would be tempted to make the guy a cup of tea in these circumstances, honestly.

It's almost entertaining, the way Eames frowns when he notices the tea, as if he can't figure out what's smelling so nice or who put it there. Arthur snorts softly, going back to his own work. He only raises his head because something – a pencil eraser, classy – hits his forehead.

Arthur looks up, raising an eyebrow. Eames catches his eye and mouths _Thanks_ , taking a gulp of his tea. His face breaks into a real, honest smile, and Arthur can't regret memorizing Eames' beverage preferences for all that it's ridiculously sappy.

(If anyone asks, Arthur knows it so as to be able to poison Eames easily. It's not that anyone _would_ ask, but Arthur likes to have a handy explanation just in case.)

Hot drinks can only do so much, sadly. Through the course of the afternoon, Arthur registers the steady droop of Eames' shoulders, and there's only so much of that he can take before he's forced to drastic action.

At around five o'clock in the afternoon, Arthur stands up and announces, "I'm going to do surveillance. Anyone wants to tag along?"

Predictably, Moss, Cranston and Blodwyn (their architect, extractor and chemist, respectively) keep their heads down, suddenly intent on whatever they were doing. Arthur's known for his strict insistence on every team member being up to date on everything related to the job, and rumor has it he will literally force people to crawl through sewers with him in order to find relevant information.

That rumor is wrong, but Arthur's not above using it for his own needs.

So it's only Eames who joins him when he leaves their rented office. "Is there an actual surveillance, love?" Eames asks.

"I could have arranged something if anyone showed interest." Of course they didn't, though. "Some people have no appreciation for research." Arthur tries not to sigh too much.

"Philistines." Eames' voice is too tired to sound mocking, and it's meant affectionately in any case. "So what did you have in mind?"

"Not sure." Arthur's hotel is only a short walking distance away. They're practically there already. "Also, if anyone asks, we went up to my room to get the something when I got a phone call and called the stakeout off."

"Oh?" Eames says. "And what did we need from your room?"

The hotel's doors swish open. "Make something up." Arthur settles in for the wait for the elevator. "I trust your judgment."

"My judgement," Eames says, dryly, "indicates that if we're going to your room for the reason I think, we're also going to have to explain why it took us an hour to come back after our stated reason for leaving was rendered irrelevant."

The elevator arrives. Eames moves inside, subtly brushing against Arthur. He waits until the doors close to add, "We might also want to come up with an explanation for possible hickeys."

Arthur reins back the smile that calls up, not because he has to, just because sometimes he enjoys control for its own sake. "Actually," he says as the elevator climbs, "I wasn't thinking about anything like that."

Eames raises his eyebrows. "Oh?"

Arthur looks aside, sheepish. "You looked like you needed a nap. I thought I'd engineer an excuse for one."

"Arthur, I'm touched." Eames' tone is sarcastic, but he runs his thumb down Arthur's cheek, and there's a soft look in his eyes. Arthur's glad they're alone in the elevator.

The elevator _ding!_ s and the doors slide open. Arthur leads Eames to his room with his hand on the small of Eames' back, taking pleasure in the unexpected freedom to touch.

"Mind you," Eames says as he sits down on Arthur's bed, "I don't think I'll be able to sleep now. Brain like a bloody hamster on a wheel."

Arthur winces. He knows that feeling. "I could give you a backrub," he says.

"Now, that would be welcome." Eames sheds his jacket and his shirt. Arthur runs an appreciative finger over the line of his shoulders. "Dunno that it'll make me _sleep_ , but welcome nevertheless."

It's been a while since Arthur gave Eames a serious, professional-grade, no-holds-barred massage. He's not going to give him one now, because his mattress isn't firm enough to serve as a massage table and he doesn't have oil available, but something amateurish can surely be arranged.

Arthur doesn't dig deep into Eames' muscles. They don't have time to deal with all the tension Eames is holding, and it will only hurt without providing relief. That's not the point right now. What Arthur does instead is almost more like petting, exerting a firm, even pressure.

Eames bends his head forward when Arthur does the back of his neck. Arthur takes the hint and slides his fingers into Eames' hair, rubbing at his scalp until Eames sighs in contentment.

They started out with Arthur straddling Eames' back, but if they're doing a head rub... Arthur moves off Eames to sit on the bed, nudging Eames until he puts his head in Arthur's lap. Eames rubs his face into Arthur's thigh. Arthur pulls his hair, just enough to get Eames to reposition himself, and scritches Eames carefully in the soft spot where the spine merges into the skull.

Eames' breath is steadying as he's being petted, and Arthur congratulates himself on a job well done when Eames reaches for his zipper. "Eames, what are you doing?"

Eames raises his head, _What does it_ look _like I'm doing?_ written clearly across his face.

Actually, this wouldn't have been a bad idea. Except that of the two of them, Arthur's the one more likely to pass out after sex. "Is this productive to you getting some sleep?"

"It could be if you stopped being a ponce about it." Eames has a right to sound irritable, Arthur supposes. It's not like Arthur's averse to Eames doing whatever he want to his pants, though, so he lets Eames unbutton them and pull his zipper the rest of the way down without comment.

Eames presses a kiss just above the base of Arthur's cock. "I like you undergarment-free," he says. Then he takes Arthur's cock into his mouth, and it's... not what Arthur was expecting.

Eames' mouth is soft around him, hardly any suction and no movement at all. Arthur is very, very familiar with Eames' cocksucking techniques, and for the most part they're more active than just holding Arthur in his mouth.

And yet, Arthur realizes this isn't unfamiliar, either. Eames does this after sex, sometimes, usually before they're about to part for any real length of time. So Arthur defaults to what he usually does in these situations, which is run his fingers through Eames' hair until one of them falls asleep.

The one problem with this is that usually Eames does it _after_ they fuck, and not – just to pick a scenario at random – when they haven't had sex for a week because their extractor is a nosy bastard who can't keep his mouth shut. So Arthur's responding; what the hell do you want, he's not _dead._

He can feel Eames chuckle. When Eames pulls back, Arthur's entire lower body feels cold. "Poor darling," Eames says, rubbing his cheek against Arthur's shirt, stubble catching on cloth. "I can't be getting you all bothered with no hope of relief, now can I?"

"I have hands, Eames. I know how to use them." Arthur can barely keep from rolling his eyes.

"Indeed you do," Eames says. "But then again, so do I." To demonstrate, he wraps one around Arthur's cock. It's only a hand, but it's Eames', and it feels so good.

"This is veering away from nap territory," Arthur says warningly.

"Shouldn't take long," Eames says. Arthur would be insulted by the implications of this, but Eames picks that moment to lick the head of his cock. He doesn't put it in his mouth, just laps at Arthur distractedly as he jacks him off.

The sad thing, Eames is pretty much on the spot regarding Arthur's current staying power. "Eames," he says. His eyes are sliding shut. God, he's going to need to drink an epic amount of coffee after this. "I'm going to – "

Eames stops. Arthur opens his eyes.

Eames moves away, opening his own pants with a quick flick of the wrist, shoving his underwear down and lying back on the bed. He returns to his previous position, hand moving slowly on Arthur's cock. "Yeah." It's an exhalation more than a word. "Tell me all about that."

Oh. That's efficient. Arthur approves of this. "I'm going to come." He's not actively trying for dirty talk. When they're like this, Eames will get off on pretty much anything Arthur says. "Actually, it looks like I'm going to come all over your face."

"Mm," Eames says, appreciatively. "Yeah?"

"All over your _mouth._ Oh, God," this at a particularly effective twist of Eames' wrist, which is an exceedingly useful piece of anatomy. "I like your wrists," Arthur tells him, because Eames enjoys hearing that sort of thing. "I love your hand, if feels so good."

Said hand tightens, probably more than Eames means for it to. Then again, Eames is coming, hips thrusting into the bedsheets, so Arthur supposes he can't fault him for losing his grip on technique for a moment.

Eames stills and his hand goes slack. Arthur nudges it off and takes himself in hand, short quick strokes to get himself off fast. Eames recovers just in time to close his lips over the head of Arthur's cock, and then Arthur's coming in his mouth, sloppy, droplets of come escaping to drip down Eames' chin.

Eames goes on sucking, but it's gentled. Arthur pulls his hair until he lets go. "Too much?" Eames asks.

"It's fine." Arthur pulls him up for a kiss, gently licking at his face until it's clean. "All right. As you were."

It doesn't take Eames long to fall asleep like that, head cradled in Arthur's hand, Arthur's cock held carefully in his mouth. When his breaths even out into a familiar faint snore, Arthur nudges Eames away, pulls his pants the rest of the way off and cleans him up with a corner of the sheet.

He draws the line at tucking Eames in, though. If only because Eames gets hot easily and prefers sleeping above the blankets anyway.

When he gets back to their office, after a hasty clean-up and a little breathing exercise to clear the flush from his face, only Moss is there.

Arthur frowns. "Where the hell did everyone go?"

"Blodwyn announced a team naptime," Moss says. "I said I was done with that shit in kindergarten, but I'm just about out of stuff to do anyway, so I'm going to catch a movie." He rises, shutting his laptop. "See ya."

Arthur sits down with a sigh. Honestly, some people have no work ethics whatsoever.


End file.
